The Timepiece
by xxpinknikkixx123
Summary: They were both young when Murtagh and Nasuada first met. Nasuada was not yet in power and Murtagh was being held captive for the Varden. Starting at the end of the first book, this is the untold account of their time together, delving into the struggles and hurts of two people, a tale of growing friendship that transcends the War consuming Alagaesia.
1. The Timepiece

**Author's note: As much as I admired the Inheritance cycle, part of me always craved for more from some of Paolini's characters. This is my interpretation of how the relationship between Murtagh and Nasuada developed behind the scenes. All my stories aim to be written as excerpts from the books and so I have worked hard to adapt the tone of his novels in my own writing. It always makes me smile to read your comments and advice is always welcome. Please enjoy!**

* * *

His knuckles seared. In his anger he had thrown his fist against the smooth stone wall, leaving four small cuts where the skin had been split. It was a rash decision he came to regret almost immediately.

He seethed, pacing up and down the room.

How was it fair that he should be locked up in this godforsaken place whilst Eragon was free to do what ever he wished? Just because he was a rider the Varden saw fit to give him special privileges. He and Saphira could wander the halls of the great dwarf city for as long as it pleased them. But they had arrived together hadn't they? He was no more an enemy than them and yet he was a monster. He was treated no better than the hundreds of urgals that had chased them to Tronjheim's front door.

This was Eragon's fault for leading him here. He knew it would be like this, he knew this would happen to him and still he insisted.

Murtagh slumped his shoulders, collapsing against the wall he had just attacked.

He could not bring himself to hate Eragon, and it pained him to admit that neither could he blame the Varden for their decision to keep him detained. He had spent his whole lifetime bearing the consequences that came with being Morzan's son. This was treatment he was used to. But understanding did not help take the bitter taste from his mouth.

As he gazed around the room he noticed the elaborate furnishings; the ornately carved ceiling; the fluted vase on the bedside table; the plush rug that covered the granite floor. At least boredom would not be his main concern for as well as the bed and the washbasin, Ajihad had left him with the luxury of with a writing desk and its own set of ink and quills. Part of him was grateful for the small kindness, yet a larger part of him could not forget that it was still a prison.

He had only been here for a mere few hours and he was eager to rest after recent events. He took off his thick leather boots and collapsed onto the soft bed. It was designed for dwarves so his feet hungover the edge but it was preferable to the hard ground he had been sleeping on during his travels from Gilead. He curled up, rolling over onto his side, and closed his eyes but for a moment.

A loud knocking interrupted the dreamless sleep. Murgtagh's eyes snapped open to the dimly lit surroundings. He was unaware how long he been resting. There were no windows to tell the time of day, but no longer did he feel weary and his stomach was growling.

A guard shouted through the door. 'You have guests!'

Murtagh grinned, despite his frustration, he was keen to see Eragon again and to hear of his recent activity in Tronjheim, as well as news of Arya's recovery. He didn't bother to stand up, but relaxed back in his cot, leaning his upper-body against the wall.

He was disappointed then, when he realised it was not Eragon who had come to visit.

When the heavy doors had opened, it was a woman who walked in.

She was unlike any woman he had ever seen. Her dark curls of hair were pinned up in an intricate bun and her only jewellery was an opal locket around her neck. She wore a yellow dress made of heavy fabric which only went to accentuate the darkness of her skin, a colour so deep and rich that he was sure no amount of sunlight would ever achieve such a colour. He had only ever met one person with skin like hers, and immediately he knew that this was Ajihad's daughter.

The guard announced, 'Lady Nasuada.'

'Thank you Roland. You may leave us.' Her voice was soft but commanding, and the guard bowed without hesitation, closing the door behind him as he left.

Moments passed in silence.

He did not let her beauty take him aback. Naturally his first reaction was one of distrust. What information did she hope to gain from him? Was she here to see whether he was a threat? Whatever what she wanted, he was sure she would report right back to her father once this meeting was over.

Out of courtesy he made a motion to stand but she stopped him, holding up a hand.

'Please, don't make yourself uncomfortable on my account. After all I'm the one who's disturbing you.' She smiled. 'Do you mind?' She gestured to a stool.

Murtagh shrugged. 'Not at all.'

She pulled the stool over and sat down. Whether she meant to or not, her shoulders relaxed slightly, and her immense air of authority lessened. She was young, barely of age, yet she held herself like a true woman. Murtagh could not help but admire her slightly.

'I hope you have been treated well?'

He wanted to conceal his earlier outburst, but when the words came out, his jaw was clenched and his words came through his teeth. 'Considering the circumstances, I'd say you're father has treated me fairly, but I do not take kindly on being kept prisoner when I have done no harm. And neither do I appreciate having my mind assaulted by the Varden. Unfortunately the process has been… unpleasant.'

She bowed her head, looking down into her palms. 'I apologise for the twins and their insolence.' She lifted her head, her eyes meeting his. 'But, with a past like yours I am sure you understand the reasons behind why such actions were necessary.'

He snorted, turning away from her stare.

'After all, I am naturally a traitor.' His words were cold and he did not try to hide the disdain in his voice.

She glared at him. 'Were those my words?'

When he did not reply, she continued.

'I came to pass my own judgement, Murtagh. I do not choose whether people are trustworthy based on the word of what others tell me, not even my father's word. And neither do I judge people based on the actions of others. So, Murtagh Morzansson do not presume that I care who your father is or who your brother or mother or sister may be. I came here to meet you and to figure out the kind of person you are.'

'So that's why you're here then? To determine whether I'm a threat?'

'The Varden know all they need to know about you Murtagh. They did not send me to come interrogate you.'

She kept her stare, letting her large almond eyes bore into him, searching for some kind of response.

'Then why are you here?'

'For company.'

'Company?'

'You have been here on your own all day. I know Eragon is busy and Arya is still unwell. I thought you would appreciate some company.' She sighed. 'And, admittedly, sometimes I grow tired of meetings with officials. I thought it would be a nice change to speak to someone more my own age, about things other than politics.'

The honesty of her response shocked him. Indeed, if in her position, he would feel the same if constantly surrounded by the innermost workings of the Varden. He had assumed that she was here to glean something from him, but perhaps she was just looking for a friend.

His cheeks grew hot. 'I'm sorry.'

'It's understandable.' She smiled and it lit up the room. Her kindness allowed him to relax and, all of a sudden, he felt a lot less on edge than he had earlier. He gave a small smile back.

When his stomach growled once more she frowned.

'Did you not eat earlier?'

He shook his head and she called for the guard.

Roland entered once more and bowed again. Once again, Nasuada spoke politely but the air of authority swept over her. Murtagh could see her striking the resemblance to Ajihad. 'Did no one bring Murtagh his supper?'

'He was brought food my Lady, but he was sleeping so the matron took it away again for fear it would spoil.'

Her lips pursed and she spoke curtly. 'Murtagh is to be kept in confinement, but by no means were you ordered to treat him like a prisoner. From now on he is free to ask for refreshment, food and any item from Tronjheim's library whenever it pleases him. Whoever is on his guard is responsible for making sure his needs are met. If I hear otherwise, then you will have Ajihad to answer to.'

Roland nodded and hurried out.

'I'll go get you something to eat now.'

Before Murtagh could stop her she was gone. His pride objected to her bringing food for him like he was a child needing to be fed, but his hunger was growing and he was grateful for her efforts. She was indeed an interesting woman. He had known her for but ten minutes and already he was sure she would make a fine leader for the Varden one day.

He did not know exactly, but when she returned he guessed the best part of half an hour had passed. The guards opened the door for her and in she carried a tray laden with fruit and game pies and large chunks of warm bread with salted fish and a wheel of soft cheese. She also carried under her arm a handful of scrolls and Roland followed with a pitcher of mead and two goblets. Murtagh clambered off the bed to help her and he set the scrolls down on the writing desk.

'Those are for later in case you wanted something to read. There's a selection of dwarven war poetry and there's some literature on a History of Urgal tribes. Of course, if that doesn't interest you then by all means send them back, but those are just some of my favourites.'

He crossed his arms, leaning back against the desk and studied her as she began to serve the food onto two separate platters. He hands were quick and nimble with a knife as she cut the pies. As she sorted out the food she did not look at him, but focused quietly on what she was doing.

'Why did you do this?' He asked as she handed him a jug of mead.

She gave him a questioning glance. 'You said you were hungry?'

'I am, but you didn't need to do all of this for me. You could have sent for someone else.'

She grinned. 'That's true. But being Ajihad's daughter means that the kitchen staff will make sure that dinner is more than just scraps. And as I was occupied earlier, I missed dinner, so this way I can eat something too.'

She plucked a grape off a vine and popped it in her mouth.

Murtagh could not hide his smile. The fact that she had gone through all this effort for him was touching. 'Thank you, Nasuada.'

'Come, eat with me.'

They resumed their places; he sat on the bed and she perched on the stool and they ate their fill. It had been ages since he had had a proper meal and the dwarf mead was exceptional. He devoured his plate and when he was done, he went to refill their goblets. He knew the drink was quite strong just from the taste, but for him it was no issue. He was surprised then when Nasuada did not seem affected by the drink.

They spoke for a long time on many things, including his rescue of Arya in Gilead and of Saphira and of dragon riders in general. In turn she shared her stories of her time at Tronjheim and she spent much of her time between bites describing the brilliance of the dwarf's handiwork in building the place. As he had given her the fourth cup he grabbed an apple off the tray and sat down next to her once more. 'Do you not feel slightly tipsy?'

'I used to feel it much more than I do now, but living with the dwarves for so long means that you grow accustomed to such things.'

'Do you enjoy living here?'

'They are amicable people, and Tronjheim is a beautiful city no doubt. But a small part of me craves for the sun and the open air.'

'I cannot imagine what it must be like to live underground for so long. How do you ever tell the time in this place?'

Nasuada laughed and Murtagh hid his smile with the bite of his apple.

'I can get you a timepiece. It's something that the dwarves invented so they could always know whether it was night or day. Here,' she pulled out a metal disc the size of a sword pommel from within the folds of her skirts. She clambered onto the bed and held the instrument in her palm. 'If you press this,' she flicked a notch on the side of the disc, 'you can see the face.' The metal opened up and inside was a smooth glass face with intricate painting to split the face into twelve identical sections. One half was painted silver, and the other was painted gold. As well as the decoration, it had two black spokes screwed to the centre. 'This one, she pointed to one of the spokes, tells you the hour. And this one,' she pointed again 'tells you whether it's dark or light outside, if it's on the left, it is night, and if it points to the right, it is day.' She grinned at Murgtagh's bewilderment.

'They are quite rare since they take years to make, but since I have got two, you can borrow this one whilst you're in here.'

He stared at her incredulously. 'I can't take this.'

'If you're stuck in here all day you need to know when to sleep and when to wake up otherwise you'll disorientate yourself. Keep it, just don't knock it around because the insides are quite delicate.'

She placed the disc in his palm and shut the lid before closing his hands around it.

'Keep it.'

Her hands were warm and soft.

'I promise I will keep it safe.'

'Good. I'll hold you to your word.'

Murtagh felt a cold empty space on his knuckles when she removed her hands. As she did so, she looked down at the back of his closed fist.

'What did you do?'

She had caught sight of the four distinct bruises from where he had punched the wall earlier.

He yanked it away, turning it palm up so she could not see. 'It's nothing.'

'I am not dumb Murtagh. I've seen those marks before.'

'Well what does it matter? What's done is done.'

She stepped off the bed. 'We will not have you torture yourself like some fool. Your lack of gratitude is hurtful,' she paused, anger touching her voice, 'if not a testament of your character.'

'Do you know how it feels to be hated by everyone before they have even met you?' He glowered at her. 'Do not assume to understand my character. You have no idea what it has been like to experience the life I have lived. Each day I am unjustly persecuted just because of my heritage.'

She pursed her lips.

'Do not expect me to thank you for your so called generosity. The Varden has treated me with nothing but contempt.'

She looked like she wanted to hit him.

'The Varden is doing the best it can for you. Would you rather we let you free to the hoard of Urgals on our doorstep? Would you prefer it if we let you get attacked by some our own men when you're not looking? What would you have us do?' Her fists were clenched now.

He rose off the bed to tower over her.

'I would have you leave me alone!'

The anger and frustration that had been building up since Eragon forced him towards the Varden, finally unleashed itself.

A guard knocked on the door to ask whether she was ok. To Nasuada's credit, she did not flinch. She did not even blink.

'I did not hate you from the moment we met. But if this is how you feel then very well, you will be left alone.'

She turned, and she left.

Murtagh groaned, sinking back into the bed, his head in his hands.

He had not meant to be so harsh. His statement had not been directed at her, but at everyone as a whole. He was tired of being accused of treachery and of being treated like he was a bad person.

Her words had stung.

He had appreciated her kindness with regards to the food and the scrolls, and most of all he had appreciated her company. She had helped distract him from his predicament and he had genuinely enjoyed talking to her. Now he had offended her. Deep down, his gut knew that she would be true to her word. He had little doubt she would not return.

Well she can be angry for all he cared, he thought to himself.

As he went to clean up the plates he caught sight of the timepiece on his bed.

He sighed.

Picking it up, he placed it neatly on the bedside table by the vase. It was such a valuable, beautiful item and she had given it to him without question. Guilt slowly wormed its way into his mind as he lay down in the cot.

Once his fury had faded, he knew what was necessary, despite his pride smarting at the idea.

In the morning he would work out a way to make amends.


	2. The Letter

Would she like it?

The letter lay unsealed on the desk as he scanned over the words for the fourth time that evening. His words were less eloquent than those she would be familiar with, but his writing was neat, and he had spoken honestly. Sitting down once more at the desk, he stared at the bottom of the page, wondering how to sign it.

Perhaps he was being foolish.

He was not one to care what others thought of him. He had spent his whole life focusing on himself, and he was not about to change that.

It bothered him that he was spending so much time on this.

He picked up the pheasant feather quill, dipped the nib in the pot of black ink, and placed the quill down again. He decided it was boredom that forced him to spend so much time on the letter, and nothing else.

If only Eragon would come visit; he would be able to help his predicament.

He slumped in his chair.

It had been three days since he had seen her, and since then he had had no other visitors. A part of him enjoyed the solitude, it had allowed his anger from being held captive to ebb away, giving him time to consider the things she had said before she left. Perhaps she was right to some extent; it was best that he didn't have to endure the hateful glares and the constant curses. As beautiful as the city might be, the people within it were not, and with no one to watch his back, he knew that it would not be worth the trouble. Even if Ajihad had granted him the same freedom he had given to Eragon, for the most part he would have kept himself to his room.

Loneliness did not plague him. He had been lonely his whole life and he had grown to live with it, but he ached to get out of the room and move. His body was jaded and he often found himself pacing just so that he could relieve the tension in his limbs. He ached to be back out in the open air and above all he wished that he and Eragon would get the chance draw swords. Their fights had been some of the most difficult and exciting duels he had ever had the pleasure to experience, perhaps, even more so than some of his duels with Tornac.

His mouth tightened into a hard line.

The letter was staring up at him from the desk.

He retold himself over and over to be done with it. Grabbing the quill, he signed his name before folding the letter up. He went to seal it using the red candle wax, but his reservation caused him to stop. What would she think of it? He opened it up, and read it over once more, just to ensure it was suitable.

Her words echoed in his head. _Your lack of gratitude is hurtful… if not a testament to your character._

He was not a selfish person nor did he wish to be cruel. It bothered him that she would think of him in such light. Whether his yelling had angered her, or even scared her, he did not know, but he had been deeply unsettled by her continuing silence.

He questioned whether she was even inclined to forgive him.

He flicked open the timepiece she gifted to him. The face's polished surface was flawless. For such a tiny thing to be crafted without magic continued to amaze him. She had given him this, and he had returned the favour with contempt.

He took comfort in the certainty that he had not caused distress. They barely knew each other, and she did not seem like the type of woman who dwelled on the thoughts of people like himself. But what tormented him was the knowledge that there was no reason for her to forgive him, or even visit again. If someone had acted the way he had, there would be no letter in the world that would change his opinion of them. But that was where they differed, or at least he hoped. The timepiece in his hand was evidence of a virtue he himself lacked.

Sighing, he closed the device.

Folding the letter, he carefully sealed it, making sure not the smudge the ink.

Before he allowed himself to change his mind, he handed the letter to one of the guards outside. As the door slammed shut he heard them muttering to themselves, displeased with the extra task they had been handed.

It was done, he told himself.

All he could do now was wait.

* * *

Farica yanked the comb through Nasuada's thick black hair, causing her to yelp in dismay.

'I'm sorry, my Lady.'

'It's fine,' she uttered through gritted teeth. 'Would you mind fetching me some warm water for my face?'

'Of course, my Lady.' Her handmaid bowed and left her chambers, leaving Nasuada alone. Picking up the comb she began to gently tease the knots out of her own hair. It had always been difficult to handle, some days she wished she could shave her head like her father, just to avoid the pain it caused her. She mused over the thought of having a bald head, Farica would faint if she saw it.

Nasuada sighed, rolling her head to ease the tension in her neck.

It had been a long day. She had spent it sat in her father's office, listening to the council of Elders and Jormundur, her father's second in command. Their arguing had lasted the whole day, and had continued late into the night. Disputes on how to set up the necessary defences, and where to station the troops, and about how they should handle the army of unknown size, echoed in her head, round and around, blocking out all hopes of ever finding a solution. Although Eragon turning up on their doorstep was a blessing, it had complicated matters within the Varden considerably, amassing new concerns to an already overbearing number of problems. And as her father was up all night, troubled by the situation, she too shared that burden.

The back of her mind stirred with uncertainty. She could not help but feel as if they were on the edge of something large, much greater than anything she had ever experienced before. The arrival of Eragon and Saphira had set something in action, a turn of events that she knew would disturb the Varden's balance within Farthen Dur.

She shook her head, ridding herself of such thoughts. She refused to fear the unknown events which lay ahead. Whatever must happen will happen, no matter how hard she dwelled upon it.

When Farica returned she handed Nasuada the water and a cloth, to wipe the grime and mountain dust off her skin. 'A letter arrived for you my Lady.'

She placed a paper envelope down on the table next to her, the runes of her name scrawled on the front in a large curving font.

She glanced up at Farica through the reflection in her mirror. 'Who's it from?'

'Eragon's companion, my Lady, the prisoner.'

Nasuada's chest tightened slightly. She didn't speak but let her handmaid continue fussing with her. When her hair was finished, Farica undid the laces down her back and helped her out of her heavy gown into her night shift.

'Thank you Farica, you may go and tend to your own needs.'

Her handmaid nodded, picking up her dress from the floor, and taking back the cloth to be washed.

'Do you wish me to bring you some spiced wine before bed?' She asked.

Nasuada smiled, shaking her head, 'Perhaps another time.'

She curtseyed and left the room, leaving Nasuada to her own thoughts.

She had planned on going to bed and waking up early for the war council meeting, but Murtagh's letter sat on the table. She had not decided quite what to do with him yet. The easiest option was to ignore him, but she knew deep down that she did not want that. On the other hand, his anger had control of him and that frustrated her. She had no wish to be friends with someone whose actions were fuelled by bitterness.

She stared at the runes spelling out her name on the paper envelope.

Temptation got the better of her. She picked up the letter and brought it with her into the drawing area. She sat in one of the plush blue armchairs, tucking her feet up on the chair. The fire that was once roaring had now burnt down to embers, creating little light, but enough heat to warm her toes.

She broke the wax seal and began to read.

 _Nasuada,_

 _Thank you for your recent kindness in bringing me the scrolls, and in everything else you have done for me. Without regular visitors, the History of Urgal Tribes has kept me grossly entertained during these past few days._

 _Living here is not so bad as it first seemed. The food and comfort your father and the Varden have supplied is a greater luxury than what I have previously experienced. I wish you to understand how it disturbs me, knowing that I allowed frustration to overwhelm reason. In doing so, I have offended you, and the hospitality the Varden has shown to me. For this, I am sorry, and although I hope you will forgive me, I do not expect forgiveness in return._

 _If it would please you, I would very much enjoy discussing what I have read with you. If not, perhaps if time permits, you would grace me again with tales of Tronjheim and what it was like to grow up in the dwarf city. In turn, I can tell you more of my life, and of the things I have seen, if you so wish. It would be a pleasant way to pass the time if you ever feel the need for a respite. Your company would always be welcome._

 _Murtagh_

She smiled, the tightness in her chest evaporating. She read over his letter once more.

Well, she thought to herself, at least that's one less thing to worry about. She would ask Farica to wake her up an hour earlier than usual so that she could go visit him in the morning.

She stood up from the chair and folded the letter neatly. She was about to burn the letter for lack of what else she would do with it, but something within her pressed her to keep it.

His words had meant something to her.

She was pleased to know that he was content, although she could not help but feel for his loneliness. She had practically been alone her whole life. She had her father, but she never knew her mother and growing up she was surrounded by dwarves and men and politics, not children her own age. Except for Farica, she did not know anyone she could trust with her innermost thoughts and feelings, and even then, she could not tell her handmaid everything.

As she entered her bedchamber she placed the note in her side table, unable to think where else it would be sensible to keep. She summoned Farica to issue her instructions upon waking early and wished her a goodnight.

Once in bed she began to contemplate the tensions that will arise the next day as the threat of war issued ever closer. At least in the morning she would have some time to do what she wished. Perhaps, she thought, she would also speak to Eragon, if given the chance, to remind him to go visit Murtagh soon.


	3. The Sunflowers

He lay on his back, staring wistfully at the ceiling. With his eyes he carefully traced the milky veins that swam though the black marble. Golden metalwork outlined its way along the edges of the room's walls until they reached the corners, coalescing into a cascade of minute leaves that pointed down towards the floor. If Tronjheim's cells were built with such attention to detail, Murtagh struggled to picture how striking the rest of the city must be.

He had eaten not so long ago. The meal had been satisfying. With his stomach full from the pitcher of mead that had accompanied half a roasted guinea fowl, he felt content to do no more than mull over the day before him.

Eragon had finally come to see him that morning. He had appeared well rested and Murtagh was gladdened to hear of Arya's quick recovery. Before today, he had thought about the elf for quite some time, wondering who she was. He knew very little about her except what Eragon had told him and although his praise was plentiful, Murtagh could not help but feel weary. If she had been important enough for Galbatorix to torture and abuse then she must certainly hold a powerful position against him. Moreover, her ability to resist the king proved her strength to be far greater than that of any man he had ever encountered.

He could not imagine what horrors she must have faced at the Kings bidding. His mind flashed back to the frightening mutilations he had seen on her body and he grimaced at the thought.

At least she had been given the time to recover.

Despite the many things they had discussed, Eragon had not said much about the ongoing battle plans. He did not have to say it for Murtagh to understand. The time they had left for respite was dwindling, and soon enough, the men here would have to take up arms.

He sat there, listening to his own slow breathing, considering the idea.

It had been something pressing on mind for a while.

Where did he fit in with all of this?

If the Varden was going to war, where did he stand? He never supported Galbatorix, that much stood true, and there was no reason for him to oppose the Varden's efforts. But from there on, it was not clear what he wanted, except that above all, his loyalties lied to himself. He knew the Varden's attempts at rebellion were misguided, their goal to overthrow Galbatorix would result in anarchy and madness strewn throughout the Brodding Empire. And although he shared no fondness for the mad king, neither did he wish to see the whole of Alagaesia uprooted.

In any case, he would not risk his life for a lost cause.

This was not his battle.

The only other choice was to leave. It would hurt Eragon, he was sure of it, but that mattered little. Amongst the confusion of battle, he was certain there'd be the chance to flee Farthen Dur. If he could make his way to Tarnag, he could get a ship, and with enough planning, surely it could not be too difficult to reach Du Weldenvarden?

He would find refuge with the elves, at least until he was no longer being hunted by the empire.

He snorted at the absurdity of the notion.

Him, living with the elves!

Why would they ever risk their necks take him in? The Son of Morzan. They would despise him as just as much as any human did. He was a fugitive. There was nowhere within Alagaesia where he would be safe from his own name.

He cursed his luck.

He could always go east? The idea was disturbing. No one knew what lay beyond the realms of the Hadarac Desert. Except to a few nomad tribes, the place was an unknown that no one had dared venture, at least not after the fall of the riders.

He could do it.

He could go east. It would be hard, but with Tornac and enough equipment, which he was sure he could gather, maybe it was possible, if he stuck to the Beors, and travelled fast. No one would notice his disappearance after the war had started. He would be presumed dead, or in any case, by the time they noticed he had gone, he would be too far away to track. Or dead.

He let out a morbid laugh.

The idea was oddly amusing.

He began to compile a list of all the things he would need. His weapons, his armour, his waterskins, and rations in case hunting was difficult. He'd need to get hold of Tornac and he would need his reins as well as his saddlebags. He would have to guess how long he'd be travelling so it would be hard to know how long his supplies would last. And there was also navigation to consider, he'd need several maps and a compass if possible, although he knew he could always work from the sun.

The more he considered it, the more he began to believe it was possible.

Thinking about it made his heart thump inside his chest.

If he could convince Ajihad to let him fight, they'd give him most of what he needed, including Tornac. He could always ask for maps, and there must be scrolls in Tronjheim's library that could help him somewhat to discover more about where he was headed.

He sat up in his cot, running his hands through his hair.

It was possible.

Lost in his thoughts, he barely heard the footsteps outside. But he did not miss the distinct sound of a woman's voice.

Nasuada.

He rolled out of bed as the guards opened the door for her. This time when she stepped in, she was wearing a plain orange dress. Her face was concealed behind the large bunch of sunflowers she carried.

He gave her a questioning look as she peered over the top of them.

'I thought you could use a change of scenery.'

He grinned, bewildered by her sense of humour. He gestured for her to come in and she walked over to place the great yellow flowers in the fluted vase. They were so heavy he worried for a moment they would fall.

'You must be bored of this room after staying here for so many days' she said, fidgeting with the sunflowers so they all faced outwards. 'My father always loved these. He always keeps some on his desk because they reminded him of home.' She sniffed one of the flower heads, pleased by the scent. 'I know it's not much, but they're my way of apologising.'

He frowned. 'Why would I need an apology?'

She glanced at him with a sad smile, before returning to the plants.

She seemed disheartened.

'I had meant to come earlier,' she admitted, not looking up from the flowers, her shoulders slightly stooped. He noticed a distinct change in her appearance, although still she remained composed.

'I was pleased to receive your letter. It was-' she paused, finding the right words. 'I did not expect such a change of heart from you. What you said, it was… admirable.'

He was grateful she wasn't looking at his face.

'I had intended to visit the next day, but my father had requested my presence in his office. With the proceedings that have been taking place, I have barely had a moment to myself.' She took a deep breath in, pulling up her shoulders, 'I do appreciate the chance I have to work for a cause as worthwhile as the Varden's. Please don't take what I'm saying to mean otherwise.' Her knuckles were clenched on the lip of the vase.

'It's just that I have barely eaten and I have barely slept, and there is very little time for me to make acquaintances.'

He took a step towards her. 'No one doubts your loyalty to the Varden Nasuada.'

She continued, 'and I understand that things will only increase in difficulty, and I am prepared for that. It is just that, lately things have been harder than usual.' Her voice remained smooth and calm, but he saw her hand tremble as she pulled a stray leaf off one of the stems.

He reached out to put a hand on her shoulder, but he thought better of it.

'When was the last time you had something to eat?' He asked gently.

'Honestly?' She let out a little hiccup of a laugh. 'I can't remember.'

He took her arm then and sat her down on the bed. She shook her head slightly, trying to refuse the offer but he ignored her. When he had told one of the guards to summon her food he went over to the desk where there was a jug of mead. He didn't have a spare goblet, so he emptied his own in the washbasin before pouring her a glass.

She took it without question, and downed the glass in one go.

He raised an eyebrow, a smile creeping up on his lips, but she just shook her head at him.

'Another?'

'No thank you.' She went to stand up. 'I should really go, the council is expecting me.'

Murtagh stopped her.

'Not a chance. You're no good to anyone if you're a pile of dead bones, and if you keep starving yourself, that's where you'll end up.' He sat down next to her, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. 'And trust me Nasuada,' he threw her a sideways glance, 'you look better this way.'

She let out a small laugh that made him smile.

'How long have things been like this?'

'It's nothing I cannot handle.' She tugged down at a fold in her dress. 'A week maybe? I'm not so sure. It's not the work that is effecting me, I'm perfectly capable of doing my duty to my father.'

'What is worrying you then?' Murtagh watched her intently, searching her face for an answer.

She was quiet for a moment before responded. 'I'm worried about what will happen.'

Her almond eyes appeared unreservedly sad. When she spoke, it was barely a whisper.

'I'm more than worried. I'm practically terrified.'

The guard knocked on the door and she jumped.

He scowled at the intrusion. The guard seemed to cower under his glare, but Murtagh took the food without a word and returned to sit next to her.

He realised then, how hungry she was when she gazed at the bread and cheese like a starved mongrel. He wanted to know what had upset her so much but he did not push the matter. They sat in a comfortable silence whilst she ate. When she had finished, the relief on her face was evident and he relaxed slightly, glad that one less thing was on her mind.

'Thank you, Murtagh.'

He took the empty plate from her and placed it on the desk.

'I have been pushing myself lately, she admitted, not meeting his eyes. 'Sleepless nights have not helped.'

'Work?'

She shook her head.

Her voice was calm but quiet. 'Whenever I fall asleep I can't help but think of what's coming. I've seen men injured before, but never in battle. I cannot even begin to imagine how many bodies there will be, or how many families will be ripped apart.' She swallowed. 'I'm scared for my father, Murtagh. I'm terrified no one is going to be there for him.'

He put his hand on top of her curled fists, trying to meet her gaze. 'He's the leader of the Varden, He will have his guard and his men to protect him.'

She shook her head. 'Who says that's going to be enough?' When she looked at him there were tears in her eyes.

'I need to be there.'

Her words shocked him.

'Nasuada, you cannot expect to fight! It's not safe for someone like you.'

'It is no safer for anyone else.' She didn't blink. Behind the tears, he saw her ferocious determination.

'Even the strongest warrior cannot be certain to win when matched against an Urgal. Nasuada, please don't tell me you are serious?'

She stood up, pulling her hand away.

'Do not cross me, Murtagh. I am serious.'

He dragged his hands through his hair, unhappy with her decision.

'Men would give their lives for the Varden and none are more dedicated to this cause other than myself. I could not bear the thought of cowering in some hole, not knowing what has happened to the people I care about.' A tear threatened to spill onto her cheek but she wiped it away angrily.

'You cannot hope to protect your father.'

She glared at him.

'Don't pretend otherwise, this is not about pride.'

She shrugged, turning away to face the desk. 'It doesn't matter what I can and cannot do. If I'm not there by his side and something happens to him, I will only blame myself.'

Murtagh put his head in his hands.

Her stubbornness was going to get her killed.

He let the silence between them pass as he considered what she was saying. Taking a deep breath in, he silently cursed himself for what he was going to say.

'If promise me you will not be here when it starts, I will fight for you.'

Her eyes widened.

'I'm stronger than you and I'm by far a better swordsman. Ask Eragon if you don't believe me, he'll confirm it. Ajihad would have a much larger chance of survival if I was by his side rather than you.'

She shook her head, her expression muddled. 'You would fight for the Varden?'

He let out a small laugh. 'Yes, I suppose if I defend your father that would count as fighting for the Varden.' His face darkened. 'On the condition that under no circumstances are you allowed to be here when things get underway. I'm not risking my life to have you killed anyway.'

She looked him in the eye. 'I understand.'

He nodded in agreement, and her gratitude was evident in her expression.

Then she hugged him.

It was brief, and he couldn't help but notice that her hair smelled of cinnamon. When she pulled away he blinked at her, at a loss for words. He thought he saw her blush, but he couldn't be sure.

She beamed. For the first time that day she looked well.

'Murtagh, I am in your debt. I cannot even begin to thank you.'

She did not stay for long afterwards, the council meeting required her attention and she was eager to go tell her father the news. He thanked her again for the flowers and she left with a smile on her face.

He sank back on the bed, replaying the conversation in his head.

The sunflowers stood in the vase next to his bed. They were too large and obtrusive, and he couldn't help but feel as if their brown heads were eyes staring into his heart.

He turned to face the wall instead.

So that was it, he had managed it. He would fight for the Varden and they would equip him with everything he needed bar the maps.

He swallowed, trying to ignore the scent of cinnamon that had caught in his nose.

Her father would be protected by his own men, and she would be safe, out of harm's way.

None of it mattered. It was not his concern.

He went over the list of items he would need, pushing away the guilt that threatened to consume his thoughts.


End file.
